


Le Mère des Champignons

by orphan_account, Pho_the_Pesky_Bird, Siggi



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bdubs angst, Betrayal, Character Death, Civil War, Grian angst, Heavy Angst, Hermitcraft Environmental Protection Agency, Multi, Mushi is the baby bean we all need in our lives, Mushrooms, Mycelium Resistance, Past Relationship(s), Scar angst, Standard Galactic Alphabet, There will be more tags, Turf War but Serious, dw there's fluff lmao, mumbo jumbo is a hecking cinnamon roll, oh yeah there's some galactic now so get your translating hats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pho_the_Pesky_Bird/pseuds/Pho_the_Pesky_Bird, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siggi/pseuds/Siggi
Summary: It started as a friendly rivalry; a comment here, some mycelium there-But jokes can turn into actions.And actions? The Hermits now know all too well that the smallest actions can quickly turn into wars.It’s been three months, but there’s no sign of it stopping. Scar’s reign of terror is only getting worse, and the fabled Resistance has been left in tatters.Only the strong may survive, but even they can’t go on much longer. The turf war has never been in more dire need of a conclusion, but the cost of peace may be far higher than anyone ever expected.-Tea~This fic is a collaborative effort inspired by Rin’s TWBSAU.Siggi is the main writer, and the rest of the team helps out.TWs will be left at the top of chapters and comments are appreciated!We are Le Mèreshrooms!~Briana/Siggi/Eli (Creator of Le Mère) insta: @siggi_spoon~Rin (Creator of the Turf War but It's Serious AU)~Willow (Prompt creator/main editor) insta: @willow_sz~Tea (Main ideas person)~Pho (Major stan/sarcastic relief)~Icy (also a major stan)
Relationships: Grian & Etho, Grian & mumbo jumbo, Iskall & Stress, Scar & Bdubs
Comments: 20
Kudos: 29





	1. The Figure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song:
> 
> "Nascence" and "The Call" by Austin Wintory  
> ~
> 
> Written by Eli, Willow, and Tea

The sky is dark, the winds whispering through the stalks. Not a single bird calls its sad song tonight on this little grey island, far, far away. The island is engulfed in a deep fog, the mist swirling and twisting in the moonlight. An aura surrounds the place, telling of ancient songs and tales forgotten amongst the cries of the fallen. The moon sits high in its perch in the sky, watching over this ancient land, as night’s reign descends upon the world. 

A sudden rustle breaks the silence. A rabbit jumps out of the brush with an expression of fear on its face; it is fleeing from a loping Figure in the darkness. The mist curls and twists around the Figure, the hissing of the wind pausing as it goes by.

This Figure makes no sound as they walk upon the mycelium-entwined ground. Their tattered cloak moves only a few inches off the ground, fluttering and twisting to the rhythm of the wind as they wander through the deep, dark biome. White spots shine brightly off of the crimson red of their garment, illuminated under the ever-watching eye of the moon. A wide-brimmed hat shadows their face, hiding secrets unknown and stories untold. Whether the Figure brings good or bad is just as hidden as their identity, enveloped in the fog and the night air.

The Figure moves cautiously through the towering stalks of the trees, trodding nervously through the shadows. Their steps are sagging, their posture hunched, yet their determination is evident. However slowly they may be moving, they are moving steadily, traipsing onwards with a tired sort of persistence. A glimmer catches their eye, a small glint in the moonlit woods. They stop and look down upon a strange, half-buried thing, the hazy light just barely revealing its form.

With pulsing interest, the Figure kneels to observe. It appears to be a busted-up helmet, partially buried in the mycelium. They dig it out with their gloved hands, blue eyes sparkling with excitement as they raise it closer. The brim of their hat lifts ever so slightly, the moon’s greedy gaze latching onto those sparkling eyes.

“By the Charrot’s pinfeathers,” The Figure says to themself, their voice no more than a whisper. “He was here…”

They quickly set to work, scrubbing dirt off of the helmet until it shines. For a split second, the Figure catches a glimpse of their reflection in the faded moonlight, reaching out toward their own fuzzy visage under the watchful forest. A heartbeat passes, and soon enough the moment is gone, clouds whisking away the light as they engulf the pale moon. 

“I wish it didn’t have to end this way for us,” The Figure whispers, their voice fading under the inquisitive gaze of the stars. “What happened should never repeat in history.” They shake their head as if they were clearing away the haunting memories of the war. The wind whistles quietly through the fungi forest, the moon flickering back into view in the sky.

The Figure sets the helmet down again, solemnly stacking pebbles and mushrooms around to make a memorial. They shake their head sadly, knowing this is hardly the commemoration the poor soul deserves, but it is the best they can do. Moonbeams fell from between the gaps in the fungi canopy, shedding light on the burial ground.

“May your soul find rest, brother,” The Figure says, sympathetically. “For you have faced the greatest trial.” They bow their head, thinking about what might’ve happened to their fellow warrior. However, it doesn’t do to dwell on the past. They soon stand, gathering their cloak around them, preparing to leave their fallen friend’s discarded helmet alone under the moon’s ever-watching gaze.

The cloaked Figure hears a twig snap behind them; they whirl around to face the danger, pulling out a netherite sword. A tense moment passes, their heartbeat rattling in their ears as they wait, muscles rigid with fright. Another rustling comes from the underbrush, and they raise their sword to strike when something makes them pause.

A young Mooshroom crawls out of the brush and waddles over to the Figure, their spots glowing just as brightly under the moonlight as those on the Figure’s cloak.

“Oh!.. Oh, Mushi, it’s just you,” the Figure says, slightly miffed. “I thought someone was following us.”

The mooshroom shivers from the bitter wind, and whimpers softly. The Figure sits down and lets the calf climb up into their lap, their fur soft underneath the Figure’s hand. 

“We can’t go home.” The Figure whispers with a solemn voice, to themself. They look away from the small cow, gazing up towards the sky. The fog partially lifts, and the stars begin to peek through, their beams minuscule compared to that of the radiant moon. The sight is stunning, the little shimmers and glimmers peeking through, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. The Figure would’ve enjoyed a sight like this a few months ago, but now it only invokes a sense of dread.

Why must people be so cruel?

Not that long ago the Figure’s life turned upside down; they have not been at peace ever since. Their life is an escape plan, a winding, twisting path that sinks deeper and deeper into the canyons of despair. As they gaze up their eyes land upon the moon, their last glimmer of light, the one that watches silently. 

You see, you either run or submit to the darkness. There is no escape though; the darkness consumes their world, a visceral force driving their life… whether they want it to or not. The Figure grits their teeth, resolving for what seems like the hundredth time to not fall victim. 

Not again. 

Shivering from the cold, and tired from their reminiscing, the Figure stands up. They gather kindling from among the towering trees of fungi, attempting to find some that isn’t damp from the fog. Eventually, a fire is lit and the Figure sits beside the flickering light, staring deep into its glowing center. The dancing blades of flame, the glowing warmth, it’s all so familiar to them. Now, all that they recognize is the cold weight of fear, ever-present, and ever-watching. They close their eyes, and the outside world is shut out from their mind. Soon they descended into the vast emptiness of sleep, along with the horrors that their consciousness keeps hidden and locked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iT HAS BEGUNNN [dun dun dun]
> 
> aight yeah hi, Eli here, creator of Le Mere AU! 
> 
> k so the story of how this AU started is p funny to me
> 
> I asked my followers on my story for prompts for a story/song that i needed to write for French, and Willow misread it as prompts for drawing, so she answered "do a design for Mother Spore" and this is how it played out:
> 
> Me [replying to her response]: Wait how do I write a story/song for that-  
> Willow: yes.  
> Me: But how- it's for French-  
> Willow: wrITE A SONG ABT MOTHER SPORE WOOO THE CARETAKER OF THE FOREST OF FUNGI  
> Me: .....  
> Me: [has an idea]  
> Me: LE MÈRE DU CHAMPIGNON  
> Me: gkfjdondkekd time to spend all of winter holiday obsessing about him
> 
> and so we assembled the masses and created this AU xD
> 
> also-
> 
> i got some art for Le Mère on my insta- my @ is in the story summary!
> 
> -Eli <3


	2. Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: 
> 
> "Resting Grounds" by Christopher Larkin  
> ~
> 
> Written by Briana/Eli, Pho and Willow
> 
> ~
> 
> _"I remember that night, I might as well regret that night for the rest of my days"_

The morning comes swiftly, the sun’s rays quickly devouring the pale light of the moon. The fog is stubborn, however; it still grips the surface of the small mycelium island, blanketing the biome in a gloomy grey. The sunlight dances with the fog, shining through its gloom to create patterns of light and shadow across the land. 

The Figure is deep in a tormented sleep. They toss and turn, fidgeting in place as their dreams take hold of them. Images of the painful bloodshed-- of the devastation-- that occurred to them before gathering together in a terrifying clump in the Figure’s thoughts; those thoughts are in opposition to them.

At long last, the Figure can’t take it anymore. They gasp awake, bolting into an upright position and panting slightly as they wipe sweat from their brow. The crimson-clad Figure takes a moment to stare at their surroundings, taking in the strange atmosphere the fog and morning sun had painted. Their eyes wander over the fungal scene; it was much different than the night prior. The trees no longer glowed or shone with that ethereal light; they almost appeared dormant, asleep, in the bright sunlight.

In most legends and cultures, the sun is a sign of warmth, growth, and life. To the residents of this otherworldly place, however, it is quite the opposite.

The Figure sighs, looking down to their lap. Mushi is asleep, peaceful and content where she is.They place their gloved hand on her back, gently stroking it. They feel her small chest rise and fall, breathing is calm and steady. The Figure smiles at the sleeping calf; they know that this little mooshroom trusts them with her life. They stare at Mushi, remembering a time long ago, before the war, before this season had even begun, when they and their dearest friends took care of baby villagers. When was it? The Figure furrows their brow, trying to remember when the chaos occurred. They chuckle as they remember, some tension easing out of their shoulders. 

“Sahara shrimps,” they whisper to themself, giggling at the old joke. 

The Figure remembers their friends’ faces; even though the image is fading, the Figure can still imagine their voices, their laughter. Their thoughts halt for a moment. 

They remember  _ his _ eyes. The figure’s face softens as they remember their old friend. Those beautiful, deep, amber eyes, they twinkled like starlight whenever he smiled. He always had a tendency to make them laugh, whether he intended it or not. Stuffed-down emotions begin to well up inside the Figure, clawing at their insides and tugging at their heart as they remember their feelings towards him. They sigh once more and do their best to forget again, gently pushing the thoughts back into their little compartment. A silent tear falls down the Figure’s cheek, quickly absorbed and hidden by their mask. 

Things have changed. The Figure is much older now, having seen and experienced more.  _ He _ is on the other side of the war, no longer a friend. He’s an enemy,  _ the _ enemy.

As the Figure thinks about it more, they tense up. Their mind pulses with confusion. Not just with the war, but with themself. They want to yell, to throw something, anything. An anger bubbles inside their stomach like a wild animal, unfamiliar and unforgiving. The figure grits their teeth and clenches their fist in response to the painful vexation. An irritated sob escapes their mouth, though it is muffled by the mask. 

Mushi stirs at this action. She lazily lifts her head and warbles, catching the attention of the distraught Figure. They turn their head down to her, tears forming in the corners of their eyes. The little mooshroom has a look of innocence on her face as she warbles once more. 

“It’s alright dear,” the Figure reassures, choking on their words. 

Mushi doesn’t fall for this pathetic attempt at a consolation.. She crawls closer to the Figure and nuzzles her face against their chest. She looks up at them, gently nibbling the bottom Figure’s mask. They chuckle, pulling the black mask down, carefully taking off their wide-brimmed hat as well. 

The face of the figure is one that tells a story, the story of a scarred, broken man. His blue eyes glisten with tears as they fall freely down his contorted face, catching momentarily on the stubble that had began to grow on his unshaven face. With the hat gone the gentle zephyr begins to play with the man’s tousled, dirty-blonde hair. 

Mushi is overjoyed to see her guardian’s face; she jumps into the man’s arms and starts licking the salty tears off his face. The man laughs, his pain easing away at the eager acceptance of the calf. 

“You know exactly how to cheer me up, don’t you girl?” He chuckles, tears still running down his face. He scratches the small cow’s chin and kisses her brow. She smells sweet and her forehead feels soft up against his lips. There is a hint of familiarity within her scent, but the man can’t place it. Mushi nuzzles the man’s face once more and purrs, satisfied by the presence of her guardian. He pulls her close, like a mother comforting a child, and stands up to extinguish the dying fire. 

The calf is much bigger than she was when the man first found her, but that doesn’t stop him from holding her. He tends to the fire, putting it out of its misery, and covers the ashes with fungi. Maybe it could find a little hint of life from the ashes and grow strong, on top of covering his own tracks. 

As he is doing so, his eyes fall upon the memorial he made the night prior. He stares at the helmet, focusing on the forest green headband adorning it. Sadness returning, he sets Mushi down on the ground, much to her disappointment. The man walks over and kneels at the burial site, stroking the headband. With a solemn expression falling over his face, he carefully unties the scrap of fabric from the helmet. He raises it to his face. The ends of the cloth are frayed and it smells like the metal it adorned. 

“Etho…” he murmurs to himself, greatly saddened. He didn’t ever see a death message for his fellow warrior, but it easily could’ve happened in his sleep. Silent and sorrowful, he lifts his left arm and pushes up his sleeve, revealing several other multi-coloured headbands tied around his wrist. 

A red one, for himself, flecked with fungus. It hangs like a sad flag at half-mast.

A purple one, for Ren, still brand new. The scientist had never worn it.

A white one, for Doc, heavily charred by explosions. Tunnel bores had taken his life.

A yellow one, for Impulse, stained by the blood of betrayal.

A blue one, for Jevin, who was wrongfully executed. 

And now, a green one, for Etho. The man doesn’t know what happened to his friend, but he knows that the white-haired hermit is gone. He ties the strip of fabric around his wrist, next to Jevin’s, and pushes his sleeve back over his arm. 

The strip of fabric weighs next to nothing, yet when the man adds it to his collection, it feels like lead against his arm. The non-existent weight that bears down onto his arm, onto his mind, is more than he wishes to know. He can’t believe this; nearly all of his closest friends are gone. He thinks for a moment, his brow furrowing. 

“There’s only Stress and xB left, if I’m not mistaken,” The man thinks out loud. Mushi perks up at her guardian’s voice and walks over to him, nuzzling his leg. He looks down at her, his gaze softening slightly.

“What are we going to do?” He asks his last friend, knowing that she isn’t going to answer. “We have no clue where the others are.”

Mushi warbles, and begins to lick the man’s cloak. He smiles at the mooshroom.

"At least I still have you by my side.” 

The man looks up from Mushi, and he directs his gaze towards the rising sun. The weight of his grief still hangs from his arm, but the sun brings something that his depression can never take away. 

For the first time in what feels like years, the man feels the tug of hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was this too depressing
> 
> cause it gets worse-
> 
> -Eli


	3. Mother Spore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Parasitism, sickness, violence, and vivid description of pain  
> also uh suggestive content (very minor, however)  
> ~  
> Song:
> 
> "Mycelium" by Amos Roddy and M. Robertson.  
> ~
> 
> Written by Siggi  
> ~  
>  _Djúpt í skóginum, lítill drengur er týndur._  
>  _Hver hefði haldið, hann er að flýja?_
> 
> _Heimurinn kom fram við hann rangt._  
>  _Vinir hans? þeir yfirgáfu hann._  
>  _og svo, án þess að neinum sé sama, hann fór._
> 
> _hann reif í gegnum brengluðu þyrnana;_  
>  _hann skall á klettunum, hrasaði og datt._  
>  _hver hefði haldið, að hann yrði hér?_
> 
> _~Siggi, May 2020_  
> 

The man stares at the morning sun, squinting from its brightness. His spirits lift, suddenly filled with a determination he didn’t feel before. He turns towards Mushi.

“We need to find them.” He states, determined. To call the small calf over, he squats and pats his thighs. The calf over-enthusiastically bounds towards him, expecting some form of affection. 

When she reaches him, the man picks her up; he cradles the mooshroom with one arm as he walks over to his discarded headgear. The man sets Mushi down for a moment, and he dons his wide-brimmed hat and mask. After his face is concealed once more, he picks her up again. 

Mushi loves being with her guardian, and the man enjoys being with her. He never intended to take her on as his daughter of sorts, but now that is where he is. He is a father to her, and both of them know this. 

So here they are-- Father and Daughter-- walking through the fungal wastes, nearly the same path as the night before. Though the mask hides it, the man has a joyful grin on his face; his heart is full of pride. Mushi helps the man forget his sorrows.

Their journey doesn’t last for long, however, because it is soon interrupted by pangs of hunger. The man grips his stomach and chuckles to himself.

“We forgot to eat last night.” He laughs, acknowledging his stupidity. Taking care of hunger is one of the most important facets of survival; forgetting to eat is dangerous. 

The man stops his pace and sets Mushi down, looking for an edible species of fungus. His eyes wander across the forest floor, searching, until he finds a cluster of brown mushrooms, firmly attached to a large boulder. 

Those were safe to eat.

He pulls a bowl out of his satchel, and walks over to the boulder, which is almost as tall as himself. He then carefully picks the fruiting bodies off of the stone, filling the bowl with them. Mushi, who is intrigued by her father’s actions, prances over to his side and stands on her hind legs, resting her front hooves on the boulder. 

With a single sniff, the mooshroom wrinkles her face with disgust; her interest instantly evaporates. She gets off of the boulder and wanders off, searching for a more suitable food. 

“Mushi!” The man calls, seeing that his daughter has left him. He stares at his harvest, wondering why she had such a reaction to them. Nothing seems wrong with the mushrooms. He shakes his head, confused. The man then scoops up a fistful of the brown mushrooms from his bowl and shoves them in his mouth. He chews his first handful, savouring them for a moment. 

He remembers a time when he had more flavour in his life. He remembers his friend’s cooking, the spices he used; the mustachioed redstoner always smelled like cinnamon, for it was his favourite. The man yearns for that sort of zest; he wishes for something different from the bland, earthy taste that fills his mouth. 

The mushrooms hardly taste like much; his meal scarcely fills his stomach. However, this is all he could find, and it’s better than nothing. Perhaps the daydream of spices wafting in his mind can bring some sort of flavour to the man’s very simple meal. 

After the man scrapes the remainder of the mushrooms off of the boulder for a future meal, he puts them in his satchel, along with his bowl. With a sigh, he realizes that he doesn’t know how much longer he can survive on his own; he doesn’t know if he will make it without his fellow warriors. 

Mushi bounds back into the scene, more energized from her meal than her father is. The man smiles as his child frolics around him. 

“Let’s go,” The man says; the calf’s ears perk up at the sound of her father’s voice, and she stops at his feet. The man scoops the mooshroom up into his arms and continues on his journey. 

The two continue wandering across the island, searching for any other hints of human life. For a while, the man carries his daughter, but as the day goes on, he grows weary. After an hour or so, he sets her down. By now, he can tell something was wrong. His stomach feels uneasy and uncomfortable, his brow begins to bead with sweat. 

Surely it can’t be the mushrooms he ate earlier? 

His mind floods with panic as the pain worsens. His eyesight blurs, fading to a grey. Soon, he drops to his knees, grasping his stomach and gritting his teeth. Mushi stares at him, her eyes full of concern. 

Definitely the mushrooms. 

How could he have been so stupid? He begins to feel nauseous as he groans; he remembers the last time he accidentally ate toxic mushrooms. The man controls his breathing, reminding himself that he’ll only feel like rubbish for a day or so. 

_A day or so- if you have an antitoxin…_

His eyes widen with fear as he realizes that he used the last of his medicine weeks ago. 

He isn’t going to recover from this. 

His mind dives into a head-first spiral; regret and anxiety well up inside him, bringing tears to his eyes. The man stiffles a sob, a bad move. The action triggers his nausea even further; the acidic contents of his stomach begin to move up his throat, pricking his esophagus as it does so. He knows he can’t keep it down anymore; he tears off his mask and hat and heaves. Blue-green vomit stained the mycelium beneath him, he gags from shock at the sight of this. The aftertaste stings in the back of his throat, a reminder that this is only the start of his demise. 

Mushi is frozen with fear; she whimpers softly and stares at her father, sick and trembling in front of her. His head is turned towards the ground, his mouth is agape-- dripping saliva and purge-- and his eyes are squeezed shut. His breathing is erratic; he gasps desperately for air. His mouth is dry; the foul, bitter taste of acid plagues his tongue. Thirst racks his body; he weakly lifts his head and scans his surroundings, barely holding himself up. 

He stares downhill, where a deep, clear river cuts through the earth. A need awakens; the impulse begins to seeth through his head. As if burned, he shoots to his feet and staggers down the slope, bracing himself on the trees. His head swims with lightheadedness; he barely makes it to the river’s edge before he collapses from exhaustion. Pausing to rest for a moment, he shifts to a more comfortable position. The clear water gurgles over small rocks on the river’s bed. The sound entices the man, so he thrusts his head to the river’s surface and ravenously drinks the water like an animal. 

It’s a great relief to him to feel the cool water running down his throat, cleansing the acidic bile from his mouth. Lifting his head from the water, he feels his stomach churning vigorously, attempting to get rid of the toxin that the man had stupidly ingested. 

He felt ridiculously tired from his trip downhill, and his muscles ached with every breath he took. Desperate for rest, the man takes his cloak off, exposing his ragged red jumper. He lays down on the riverbank, groaning with every little movement, and he spreads the cloak over him as if it were a blanket. Slowly, but surely, he falls asleep.

When he woke up, he was someplace different. He no longer felt sick, and the feverish aching he had experienced before was replaced by a dull soreness in his back. The man stirred, sitting up straight. He pressed a palm to his forehead, confused, wondering what had happened. 

_This wasn’t the riverside._

The man inhaled sharply, the scent of cinnamon catching his nose. He furrowed his brow and looked around him. He was in a greenhouse, with a tree growing in the center of which, and though it appeared to be midday, a looming shadow fell over his surroundings. He swung his legs painlessly off of the side of the bed he was in and stared at the grass floor. 

He hadn’t seen grass in ages. For the most part, the man had lived on only mooshroom islands for the past few months. It smelled sweet, and it felt cool underneath his bare feet. Though it was pleasing, dark memories welled up inside him, from times past, when the Mayor had started a war over this simple turf. 

Shuddering, the man stood, no longer feeling nauseous, to his surprise. A cold, marine breeze whipped through the greenhouse, bringing with it a sudden chill. He shivered and grabbed his arms, realizing he no longer had his shredded jumper on, and the headbands of his fallen warriors were gone. Bandages wrapped around his torso and his arms, upon inspecting them, he winced with pain. Blue-black bruises leaked like spilt ink from underneath his wrappings, raising questions to his mind. 

_What had happened?_

_Did he die?_

_Was this the Afterlife?_

_Was there even an Afterlife?_

These questions flooded his mind, and in turn causing panic and anxiety to well up inside him. He looked towards the tree, an organism appearing rather foreign to him after being away from green plants for such a long time. The green was almost overwhelming, though it was calming. He walked over to the tree and placed his right hand on its sturdy trunk, feeling every nook and cranny of the bark. He smiled at the familiar texture, as if it was an old friend. The man slowly made his way around the tree, dragging his hand on the bark as he was doing so. When he got to the other side, he looked up and stopped; his heart skipped a beat. 

_He_ was there.

The tall, mustachioed hermit stood in the entrance of the greenhouse, wearing his classic attire, his face lit up with a bright smile. 

“Grian!” He exclaimed, rushing towards his friend. “You’re alright!” The hermit pulled the much shorter Grian into a hug. “Iskall said he wasn’t worried, but I’m pretty sure he was as worried as I was.”

“You- what?” Grian froze for a second, even more confused than he was when he woke up. “Why are you here?”

“Calm down,” The taller replied, stroking his friend’s hair. “What do you mean by ‘why am I here’? This is my home, for heaven’s sake!” 

“Wh- What? Mumbo, this- this doesn’t look like your base!”

“That’s because you’re under it, you dork!”

Grian looked straight up and saw what Mumbo was talking about. He _did_ see Mumbo’s giant base above him, but it wasn’t the one he was used to. He looked back to Mumbo’s face, still somewhat looking up. Suspicion clouded his mind. 

“This isn’t your base.” 

“Grian-” 

“Th- This is a dream, isn’t it?” Grian choked. “A figment of the imagination- a sad attempt of my mind trying to make peace with itself before I slip away- innit?”

“What?”

“Please, just let me wake up-”

“Grian-”

“Stop it!” He was crying now, hot, angry tears poured down his face. Mumbo looked hurt. 

“This isn’t a dream.” He said, stroking Grian’s face. 

“But- But-” Grian looked down at the ground, tightly gripping Mumbo’s arms. “But the war- the Resistance- Scar- Scar took you away-”

“The war’s over, G. It ended a long time ago.”

Grian looked back up to his friend’s eyes, concern knotted Mumbo’s brow. 

“What? But-”

“We won, remember? Team G? I was a mole and I helped you win?”

“No- no- no- not that war- the _other_ war- the one where everyone died- because of _me-”_

“No one died, G.”

“No! No- I _saw_ them die myself- I saw Scar killing Ren when the H.E.P. broke in, I saw-- from a distance-- Tango slaying Impulse, oh god- it was awful! Doc and Jevin and Etho- they’re all gone! They’re-”

“Grian! Calm down!” 

Grian jumped at Mumbo’s sudden shift in tone, his anger boiled down. 

“I have no clue what you’re talking about! That never happened! They’re not _dead_ , they’re still here! I- I think you were having a nightmare or something, because I know you were _not_ comfortable while you were out.”

“I was- out?”

“Yeah-” Mumbo replied, his voice softening. “You gave us all a scare.”

“What- what happened?”

“Building accident. We were working on Sahara and you fell, you might’ve been on half a heart when we found you. You lost a lot of blood and definitely broke more than a few bones; it’s a miracle Xisuma was online, or else you would’ve died.”

“S- Sahara?” 

“Please tell me you remember Sahara-“ Mumbo braced himself to explain things. 

“No, I do,” Grian replied, much to Mumbo’s relief. “But that happened in season 6- this is season 7!”

“It’s not.”

“I’m so confused-” Grian let go of Mumbo’s arms and raised them to his face. Was this all true?

“It’s okay,” Mumbo wrapped his arms around Grian, comforting him. “We’ll figure things out.” 

“Mumbo-” Grian whispered his name with pure bliss; joy and relief replaced the feelings of confusion. 

The two stood there—embraced—for several minutes, not needing to speak. Grian still didn’t understand, but he trusted his best friend. He smiled, smelling the familiar scent of cinnamon on his friend’s vest. 

However, good things never last forever. 

Mumbo’s expression snapped, from pure joy to pure pain, as he let out a gut-wrenching scream. He doubled over- as if he were rag-doll- from the discomfort. A long, barbed sword stuck out of Mumbo’s back. 

Grian could not move. He stared, petrified, at his friend, who had just collapsed to the ground; the suit-cladded hermit’s blood stained the grass they were standing on. 

“Love always disgusted me,” an all-too-familiar voice stated, nonchalantly. “It ruins friendships, causes pain, breaks hearts.”

_Scar_.

Grian looked up to his enemy’s face, which was plastered with a sadistic grin. Rage boiled within every vein of Grian’s body. 

_This can’t be happening._

_Not again._

_Not to him._

Desperate, Grian launched himself at Scar, tackling him into the ground. Grass flew up into the air, as if Scar was a grass-feathered bird, and Grian was the cat catching his prey. Scar, seeing that he was pinned, quickly kneed Grian in the gut, freeing himself. The bandaged hermit rolled off of Scar, gripping his stomach. 

The nausea was back. 

He is waking up. 

_It is all a dream- no- a nightmare._

Grian grits his teeth, stifling a sob. He turns his head towards Mumbo-- who is on his knees, barely keeping himself up-- and sobs. 

_This is all a nightmare._

Grian feels his left side burning, the horribly familiar pain seeping into his body. Memories replay in his mind; death and bloodshed and horror and tragedy flood back into his head, something that he didn’t miss. Mumbo’s body falls over, passing through the ground and plummeting until it is too far away to see. Grian turns his head back to Scar, who is on his feet once more. 

“Why?” Grian chokes, the sound barely coming out of his mouth. 

“You must be kidding me, _Mother Spore_ ,” Scar spits, every word is like venom. “I can’t _believe_ you’re upset about that wretched traitor!”

“No! Don’t- he’s not-”

“Stop lying to yourself! He was a terrible waste of talent. You know this, we both do. He couldn’t choose a side.”

“Scar! Please-” Grian’s right side begins to ache, for some reason. The strange feeling seeps down into his muscles, causing slight spasm. He shakes with nausea and fear, horrified at this nightmare; wishing that he would just wake up. 

“Are you _weak_ like him?” Scar questions, quite accusingly. He pulls out his axe; its clean netherite blade sparkles in the sun. His eyes blaze like fire, rage fuling him; hate seething through every fiber of his being. He raises the axe. 

“SCAR!”

Grian wakes up, a sharp pain coming from his right side. He sits up, in a cold sweat, and grabs his chest, receiving pain in response. Taking a quick inhale, he turns to his left, where he’s met by the expectant gaze of Mushi. 

“Oh,” Grian whimpers. “It _was_ a nightmare.” Tears run down his face; he wonders why his mind would betray him like that. He wishes that he could stay in that dream- the first half, of course- and that the war- the real world, the real nightmare- is just a nightmare, a figment of the depths of his mind. But this is not the case, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. 

Nausea boils in Grian’s stomach; a steady reminder of how little time the man has left alive. He glares at the river’s surface, trying to distract his mind from the pain that seethes through his body. 

It’s quite strange, this pain; it almost feels as if something had knit itself to his skin. Every movement brought a stinging pain, close to that of a sunburn. Grian shifts to his knees, causing great discomfort. He dips his hands into the water; they burn as he splashes water on his face. His eyes widen with confusion as he studies his hands. 

_What the hell is happening?_

They seem normal at first glance, but at closer inspection, white, elevated lines spread all over his hands, just beneath the skin. It hurts when he bends and flexes them, but when he keeps his hands still, they have only a residual pain. Grian peels off his jumper to inspect further. As he tosses it aside, he notices that the lines aren’t just on his hands. Instead, the strange streaks spread all over his body, swirling and weaving through his skin. 

_Strange._

He touches the left side of his torso, which is covered by the burn scars that the tunnel bores had given him, and investigates the stripes. When he touches them gently they don’t hurt as much. His hand stops as he feels something else on his back. 

It almost feels like- _lichen?_

Grian quickly stands up, much to his discomfort, and gets in a position where he can view his back through the river’s reflection. 

Sure enough, a patch of lichen has taken hold on his scar, thriving from the dead tissue it has taken root in. Grian furrows his brow, shaken. He brushes his hand over it, feeling its life. 

_It is a part of him now._

_This is how he will die._

Grian sits down, back facing the water’s edge. He didn’t want to see his new adornment. He knows that the lichen will spread and take over his body eventually, though he didn’t know how long it would take.

_Is this because of the mushrooms?_

His mind still spins with panic. Should he continue searching? In this condition? It’s only a matter of time before the lichen renders him unable to move. Though, the others could help him, as long as they weren’t in a similar situation. 

Grian stares at the hill he had stumbled down earlier. Yellow catches his eye; a rare colour to find in this biome. He squints, leaning forward, and sees a sprig of dandelion, sprouting from a clear patch of dirt. 

He can use that to save himself. 

He stands, hobbling up to the dandelion- which is about ten paces from where he was sitting. Once he reaches the dandelion, his energy is drained. He collapses next to the flower, shaking with nausea again. The man is on his hands and knees, gasping exhaustedly for air and dry heaving. The wind is cool against his back, yet it burns where the lichen has taken root. He lies down, minding his back, and stares at the flower. 

It reminds him of the dream; of his friend. Those few moments they spent together felt so real, and yet it wasn’t. He thinks of cinnamon, of the things that his friend used to bake. He remembers the times the mustachioed hermit had tried to teach him his skill. He remembers laughing and joking with Mumbo, even though Grian had failed miserably at baking. His heart sinks. 

He’ll never experience that again. 

He’ll never see his friends again. 

He’ll die out here, alone, no one to find his lifeless body. 

He’ll rot. The fungus that now grows on him will see to that. 

His thoughts drag him into a head-first spiral, bringing him deeper into a depression that he thought he was done with at the beginning of this day. As the sun leaves the world, his happiness disappears with it. Silent sobs overtake him, no tears, however. He doesn’t have any tears left to cry. He hates everything around him. He hates this sickness. He hates the biome that surrounds him. He hates the mushrooms. He _hates-_

Hate- for him, it’s such a foreign term. Before the war he didn’t really hate anything. He didn’t know _how_ to hate. He loved all his friends. He loved everything, and he was fine with anything. 

However, the war changed things.

War changes things. 

It’s a poison that seeps into minds, that alters our view. Many celebrate it, but it’s not something to play with. 

Grian learned that the hard way. 

Scar is yet to learn it. 

War tore this world in two. Not just into the HEP and Mycelium Resistance, but it tore it into the sides of alive and dead. Today, alive outnumbers dead, but tomorrow could be a different story. People fight so hard to win a war, but it’s impossible. Everyone loses in war.

Grian feels helpless. Even if he recovers from his illness and finds his friends, the war cannot be won. Scar’s too powerful. They’re severely outnumbered. 

_There’s no way._

Grian shuts his eyes and tries to fall asleep, still staring at the flower- his only chance of survival. 

_ℸ ̣ 𝙹ᒲ𝙹∷∷𝙹∴ ||𝙹⚍ ∴╎ꖎꖎ ∷ᒷᓵ𝙹⍊ᒷ∷, ᒲ|| ᓵ⍑╎ꖎ↸._

He falls asleep hearing strange whispers of comfort flowing over him like soothing waves. 

_∴ᒷ ᔑ∷ᒷ ∴ᔑℸ ̣ ᓵ⍑╎リ⊣, ᒲ𝙹ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ∷ ᓭ!¡𝙹∷ᒷ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ tHIS TOOK FOREVER TO WRITE LEMME TELL YOU- LIKE WHAT THE _HECK_ THIS CHAPTER IS LONGER THAN THE FIRST TWO CHAPTERS _COMBINED_ AAhhHHHHHHHHHHH
> 
> seriously guys i think i have a problem-
> 
> ~ Sorry to anyone who had to skip over this chapter due to the triggers, my brain was like “haha angst” and i went with it xD
> 
> ~ Mumbo and Grian are not together, they are merely friends, though G is very confused about what he _truly_ feels, so- uh- yeah- that's why the dream was as suggestive as it was-
> 
> You'd really think i'd step away from the angst for half a chapter? No, no, friends, it's gonna get much worse :)
> 
> There's a reason why "Heavy Angst" is in the tags xD
> 
> ~ Official YouTube playlist for the songs: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLCrDQ9I5e0lSxyp14iWZJ-afI7L5WG0zL. 
> 
> Feel free to listen to them and ponder what shall happen next in regards of the plot 
> 
> ~ I sincerely apologize for the hiatus on insta, my parents have taken me off of there due to what I was discussing with friends 
> 
> ~ Lastly, I am fully aware that the tense changed halfway through the chapter, that is an artistic decision, to make it seem more jarring. 
> 
> \- Siggi <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who's a part of the Le Mèreshrooms gc! Y'all have so many wonderful ideas for the story :D  
> -Eli <3


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